Chapter 1 Claustrophobia
To help my best friend fulfill her final wish, my husband abandoned me in a broken elevator, despite knowing about my severe
claustrophobia.
She had said that the placenta of the stray cat I’d been feeding could cure her illness. Without a second thought, he cut the kitten open.
Later, I walked in on the two of them, naked, in the marriage bed that was once mine and my husband’s.
This time, I calmly handed him a folder.
“Divorce papers?” He looked at me, stunned.
“Yes,” I said with a soft smile. “This time, you and Sylvie can finally
have each other.”
My husband, Hugo Caldwell, instantly panicked.
He said, “Rosalie, I’m begging you, don’t leave me! Didn’t you used to care about me more than anything?”
***
Once again, I worked late, leaving the office around 10 p.m. and stepping into the elevator.
Hugo was waiting below and called, urging me to hurry. “Sylvie’s rushing me. Hurry up. If we’re late, we’ll miss the stars.”
My best friend, Sylvie Lancaster, was terminally ill with little time left.
Tonight was the night of her planned mountaintop camping trip, one of the wishes on her bucket list.
Before I could answer, the lights flickered and died, the elevator dropping sharply before stopping between floors.
Panic surged, and I screamed. Even over the phone, I could hear Hugo’s impatience. “Don’t tell me you’re backing out again? You know how much Sylvie’s bucket list means to her!”
Claustrophobia gripped me, making even this brief moment terrifying.
Trembling, I forced myself to calm down and gripped my phone tightly, pleading for help. “Hugo, the elevator broke down. Can you come get me?”
Tears welled, but the line went dead.
“Stop playing your little games. I’m leaving. If you’re not coming, then don’t. Sylvie’s unlucky to have a friend like you!”
Usually, I would have called back frantically. But this time, I let out a bitter laugh and quietly wiped the tears from my pale cheeks.
Even though my whole body was shaking, I didn’t call him again; I didn’t try to stop him from going to Sylvie.
My lip was bitten so hard it nearly bled, but I couldn’t shake the image I’d seen earlier that day.
My colleague had stumbled upon Sylvie’s social media profile and sent
it to me.
One item on her completed bucket list read, “Be fully satisfied.” I recognized the veined hand gripping her wrist; it was Hugo’s, still wearing our wedding ring, sweating on a hotel bed with her.
Sylvie had been my best friend for 13 years. When she was broke, I shared what little money I had to make sure she was fed–even if it meant going hungry myself.
I made her my maid of honor when I got married, and gave her the center spot beside me Hugo.
She once joked, “Rosalie, what’s yours is mine, right?”
Back then, Hugo didn’t like her–he thought she clung to me too much and was constantly jealous of her.
But now? He was tangled up in bed sheets with her.
Inside the elevator, the air felt thinner by the second. My heart pounded wildly, but it didn’t help; my vision blurred. Right before I passed out, a message appeared on my phone. For a moment, I thought Hugo had come back for me after all, but it was from Sylvie. “Rosalie, I’m really disappointed you didn’t come. Do you even consider me your friend anymore?!”
Under the night sky, she and Hugo stood so close–it looked like they
were about to kiss.
I closed my eyes, exhausted, my breath barely a whisper. “Something came up. You two have fun.”
Trapped between floors, between life and death, a realization dawned on me. Husband or best friend, it didn’t matter. Once someone betrays
you, they never deserve you again.
